


restless

by Snowsheba



Series: a shipping challenge, Dave edition (ON HIATUS) [9]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Franco-Prussian War, French History, as in the language, copious amounts of French, copious amounts of mouseover translations for those who don't speak French, the Siege of Paris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 21:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1361809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowsheba/pseuds/Snowsheba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris, France, January, 1871. Dave Strider is a young American boy who came to Paris to practice his French. Roxy Lalonde is a young French girl who has lived in the city all of her life.</p><p>It’s hard to go on like nothing’s really changed when the Prussians are shelling the place, but they manage, somehow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	restless

**Author's Note:**

> You can hover over the French for translation.
> 
> This story is slightly pointless but it has French and French history in it, so therefore it is not as pointless as it could be. There are probably mistakes in here too, but eh.
> 
> Also I may have made some mistakes in relation to the French language, so native speakers, correct me if I'm wrong. I've been speaking the language since I was four, but it never hurts to make sure.

You meet her a few days before the siege begins in earnest, and she is uniquely the strangest woman you’ve ever met.

“ _Américaine_ ,” she says the moment one word escapes your lips. You aren’t sure what to make of this – you’re trying to ask directions to a hotel, any hotel at this point – and you simply stare at her, red eyes expressionless, face a blank slate, as she smiles with black-stained lips and says, “ _T’as un bon accent, mais ce n’est pas parfait._ ”

“ _Je ne sais pas si je devrais dire merci ou cassez-vous_ ,” you reply, forgetting in your surprise that you should probably not be using such crude language with a French girl. “ _Et ce n’est pas vraiment poli d’utiliser ‘tu’ avec un étranger, n’est-ce pas?_ ”

She laughs, a surprisingly throaty sound for someone so petite and small, and then tells you in heavily accented English, “You are funny, for an American. Not as noisy or stupid. I can appreciate that. I will treat you to a drink, how is that?”

“With all due respect, _mademoiselle_ , I don’t drink,” you say, and then you add, “And I don’t know you.”

“That is all right,” she says, grinning. “You will soon _._ ”

Her words ring ominously in your ears, _dear lord is she a prostitute_ , and then she’s hooked you by the arm and you’re being dragged away. For some reason it never occurs to you to just pull away and run, which, in retrospect, goes to show how special she was.

* * *

She actually brings you to a café that is one of a few still open during normal working hours, where she buys you a coffee and insists you drink it. You do, after a few cautionary sips, and as the minutes wear on you decide this Frenchwoman isn’t so bad, in all honesty.

“I have lived here for many years,” she says a few seconds after you’d gotten your drink, and her voice rolls the _r_ richly at the end of the last word. A shiver runs up your spine at the sound of it; you’d always had a sort of admiration for accents. “Paris is a fickle lady, and now she is unhappy.”

You sip your coffee, a little blacker than you normally like it, and say dryly, “ _Et parce qu’elle est en train d’avoir une crise de la quarantaine, elle a décidé qu’aller à la guerre contre la Prusse était une bonne idée_.”

She sniffs. “You want to be a _bite_ about it, yes, one could say that.” She purses her lips, then, scrunching her nose, tapping her fingers on the table, and says, “I think it is more like her nation calls her to revenge them, and she will respond to the call.”

“Avenge, not revenge,” you correct her, and then you ask, “ _Pour venger quoi, spécifiquement?_ ”

“The injustice,” she says simply. She leans forward on the table, gloved fingers laced together like lattice. “We will fight the intruders for France.”

“ _Mais c’est seulement Paris qui continue la bataille_ ,” you point out, resting your elbow on the table and your head on your hand. Who cares if it’s atrocious manners; curiosity is what drove you here in the first place, it’s not like you could do anything worse. “ _La reste de la France a déjà capitulé._ ”

“Parisians get their way,” she replies with an enigmatic smile. You feel a little nervous at the sight of it. “And if they do not, they put up a hell of a fight before they give in.”

“ _Je suis sûr_ ,” you say. Then, “ _Bon, je m’appelle_ Dave Strider. _Toi?_ ”

She repeats your surname once before saying her own. “ _Roxelle Lalonde_. _Je préfère_ Roxy. It is more American.”

She shakes your hand when you offer it, you lean in obligingly and do _la bise_ with her, and a beautiful friendship of sorts is born.

* * *

You get to know Roxy pretty well over the next few days. It helps when the sky starts to rain bullets and you’ve got nowhere to take shelter, but you probably would’ve gone with a complete stranger to avoid getting shot.

As it is, you’re meeting over a breakfast that consists of cat and horse meat when gunfire becomes louder than usual, and when you look at each other, a conversation passes in the span of seconds; then you both stand up, grab your remaining food, and begin to run, ignoring how you failed to pay for your purchases.

“ _Par ici,_ ” she says, turning the corner, and you follow her blindly, one hand flashing to the small of her back when she stumbles. She gives you a lopsided grin in thanks and you return it with a nod, and then you both pick up the pace until you’ve reached an old building complex, which she enters with you close behind.

“ _Tu vis dans un appartement?_ ” you say incredulously, and she merely flits to a door and fishes a key out of her – you look away as her hand slips into her bodice, taking the time to answer your own question, muttering, “ _Il y’a nul part ici pour une maison, je suppose_.”

“A good observation,” she replies, and she finally gets the door open and gestures you inside. She closes it with a flourish as you enter, eyeing the spacious room with somewhat of an expert’s eye. “I hope you do not mind cats. I like Frigglish a lot.”

As she says this, a lithe black kitten walks up to you and winds itself around your legs. You grimace, because that ruined your pants and you only have so many clothes in the bag strapped around your shoulders. “ _Il est mignon_ ,” you say blankly, because at this point who the hell cares about your goddamn pants, and then you ask, “ _Qu’est-ce qu’on fait maintenant?_ ”

“I do not know,” Roxy replies, helpful as always. She swoops down to cradle the cat in her arms, and then she settles herself on one of two couches in the room. “If Paris remains the Paris I have always known, then we might have to wait for a while.”

“ _Fantastique_.”

A smile tugs at one corner of her lips, as you sit on her other couch and throw both arms around one armrest. “Paris has always been here to entertain, _monsieur_ Strider.”

You cover your forehead with a hand, shutting your eyes against the light’s sting. “ _Je vous crois maintenant, mademoiselle_ Roxy.”

* * *

By far the worst part is the inactivity – there is almost nothing to do around the place except perusing her books or talking or sitting around.

“ _Je m’ennuie_ ,” she groans after she finishes reading what you think might be her third read-through of some sort of wizard mystic book. You’ve been counting the hours, and it’s been exactly six since you’ve barred yourselves in her living space.

“ _Aller coucher_ ,” you tell her dully, noting the dark shadows under her eyes, likely mirroring your own. “ _Je vais vous lever s’il y a quelque chose._ ”

“You do not need to be a knight,” she says with a sniff. “If I go to sleep, you as well.”

You debate whether you should correct her sentence; you decide it isn’t worth it. “ _Il y a seulement un lit_.”

“ _Et alors?_ ” You give her a pointed look and she shrugs. “Does it matter? There is no one to see because everyone will be inside.”

“ _Ce n’est pas_ – that wasn’t what I’m concerned about,” you say, managing to keep the exasperation from both your voice and your face. She raises an eyebrow, and you elaborate, remembering to speak slowly, “I am not going to share a bed with a woman I’ve known for precisely three days.”

She snorts and flaps a hand. “Then neither of us will be sleeping, you understand?”

Without a word you stretch yourself onto the couch, turn over so you can’t see her, and close your eyes. She makes a huffing sound behind you but does nothing, and soon you fall into an uneasy doze to the sound of her turning a book’s pages.

You awaken what seems like seconds later when there’s a crash, and you bolt upright, hand reaching for a sword that isn’t there, as Roxy yells out the now-shattered window, “ _Ta mère is tellement petite que sa tête pue des pieds!_!” which is answered by something in a language you do not understand but the mademoiselle does, and she screams, “ _Jamais!_ ” before throwing what you think might be a candlestick.

There’s a thud from outside, and then you get to your feet to help her push a bookcase to cover the now-open window. Once done, you turn to her with an eyebrow raised, silently asking her what had happened. She mutters a string of curses in her native tongue before responding.

“Some _Prusse_ thought it would be amusing to shoot the glass. I told him I did not like it, and we argued.”

“ _Tu saignes_ ,” you say with alarm, taking her hands in yours, flipping them to see long scratches cutting her palms. “ _Y’a-t-il de verre, as-tu assures qu’il n’y a pas de verre_ – ”

“There was glass flying at you,” she interrupts, “I did not want you to get hurt.”

This takes a few moments for it to process in your mind, and you say slowly, not stating it as a question, “ _Tu me dis que tu a attrapé la verre quand c’était en plein ciel._ ”

“I had a tutor,” she says, as if that explains everything. “I can fight.”

“ _Main-à-main_?”

“Are you stupid? Of course I fight hand-to-hand. Given how I do not wear lots of petticoats, I cannot conceal weapons.”

You struggle with yourself for a few minutes, because both your brother and your best friend back home would be shaming you for even thinking about offering. But in the end boredom wins out over everything else, and you ask her with only some hesitation, “ _Voulez-vous me battre_?”

“ _Toi_?” She laughs. “You look like you could not wave a stick around without falling on your derriere.”

“ _Tu ne m’as jamais vu avec une épée, alors._ ”

“I met you a few days prior, _monsieur_ Strider. I am not sure what else you expected.”

In any case, you both work together to clear out the center room – couches going to the sides, tables being pushed against the door, carpet being rolled up and propped gently against the wall – and then she changes into trousers and a loose shirt that she tucks into her belt while you take off your jacket.

Then you face off in the middle, your firsts held up loosely in front of you while hers are poised in front of her face, and then you both lunge. She lands a solid whack on your face within ten seconds, because you use swords and you only know basic hand-to-hand, and then she proceeds to beat you up every time the stage is reset and you go at each other again.

“You are not very good at this,” she says disapprovingly after the fifth round, where you’re on one knee, breathing hard on the ground. “You had my hopes up for a few minutes.”

“ _Comme j’ai dit_ ,” you say, getting to your feet, “ _Plus souvent j’utilise une épée._ ”

“That is not an excuse. I will teach you how to do this properly now. Pay attention.”

You’ve both been awake for more than twenty-four hours as she shows you the basics, the sound of gunfire fading into white noise as she sculpts your body into the proper form for the beginning stance. Her skin is smooth against yours, and you have to resist shivering when she murmurs in your ear about what to do.

* * *

In the end exhaustion overtakes the two of you, and you reluctantly agree to sleep with her in the only bed in the place. You both smell like shit and could not give any fucks about it, instead falling into bed without regard, turning your backs on each other, and closing your eyes.

You wake up a few minutes later when she rolls over and a skinny arm encircles your waist, whereupon you murmur, “I did not give you permission to start hugging me, _mademoiselle_ Roxy.”

“ _Tais-toi_ ,” she mumbles back, and your breath hitches in your throat as she nuzzles into your back, though you’d never admit it in a million years.

You’re half-afraid you’re going to roll over and crush her in your sleep as you drift off, and in your dreams you see her in blue clothes with a rifle as big as she is, firing in time with sounds that you know are from reality. The scene shifts until she’s young, younger than she is now, and she’s carrying Frigglish in her arms with a long scarf flapping in the breeze. She looks lonely with a wide expanse of sea spread out before her, and you feel your fists clench at your sides.

When you wake up, you discover you’ve turned around as well, your arm loosely around her back, holding her gently to your chest. She looks very small and her breathing is light, and you feel suddenly afraid when the gunshots you heard in your dreams echo outside.

How long will the madness last, you wonder, and then you feign sleep when she stirs, mumbling something softly under her breath. You can hear her awaken, can hear her surprised intake of breath; but then she merely settles into your embrace, prompting you to open your eyes when she murmurs your name.

“This is not bad,” she says sleepily, and you were so sure she couldn’t see your eyes from that angle, damn it.

“ _Non_ ,” you agree, and you swallow hard at the swell of protectiveness that swamps your nervous system, as her breath warms your skin. She’s just a French girl you met a few days ago – a perfect stranger, as it were; why do you feel this way? “ _Ce n’est pas._ ”

“Mm.” She snuggles closer and you rest your chin on the top of her blond hair, closing your eyes as you adjust your arm around her waist. It’s hard to relax with her so close and with gunshots and explosions echoing nearby, but you are on the ground floor… no, you should be in a basement somewhere.

The world can wait another few hours, you tell yourself, and you allow yourself to drift off into an uneasy sleep.

You’re both awakened again by a loud explosion that rocks the world nearby, and this time your arms are quite literally intertwined around each other. It takes a few moments to detangle yourselves and get yourselves standing, whereupon Roxy sweeps a hand under the bed and comes back up with her arms full of Frigglish.

“ _Il y’a des escaliers qui descend à droit de la porte_ ,” she says breathlessly, and the two of you rush out the door. You turn right as directed and usher her in as you look behind you; other inhabitants of the complex are making their way here as well, and you don't spare the time to keep the door open before going after her.

Another resounding bomb or shell or something causes you to trip and fall down the stairs, and you hear screams from above from those who were too late to make it. Roxy is crouched in a corner of the room, Frigglish is surprisingly placate in her hands, and you make your way to her until you can hunker down next to her.

“ _Ça va?_ ” you ask her softly, and she leans into you as you slip an arm around her shoulders.

“ _Que penses-tu?_ ” she replies with a tremble. You’re shaking too – no one ever prepared you for this sort of thing, Bro and John and the rest must be worried sick about you – but you stay quiet and hold her, a show of silent support. She merely hugs Frigglish tighter, only to loosen her grip when he lets out a small mew of protest. “ _Je n’ai jamais imaginer que Paris tombera._ ”

“ _Je sais._ ” You hesitate for only a moment, but then you press a kiss to her temple. She turns her head to look at you, shock written on her features, as you say quietly, “We are taught the same in America – that we are the good guys, that we will always win.”

“ _Nous sommes les moutons_ ,” she says, a soft, sad look in her eyes, and then she turns her head so she can lean it against your shoulder. “We believe whatever we are told.”

Frigglish meows from her arms, as if he agrees, and you reach over to scratch his ears as screams and resounding _booms_ echo from above.

* * *

Neither of you were stocky people to begin with, but now Roxy looks painfully thin, and when her hands run over your chest, you know she can feel each individual rib. You are the only two who made it to the cellar in time of the many who lived in the apartments, and you are both afraid to venture forth into the lobby of the complex.

You think the building still standing, at least somewhat – it’s made of stone – but with bombs dropping every other minute, giants walking slowly on the ground above, neither of you feel inclined to risk going out to find food and water.

There’s wine down here in any case, if you’re feeling desperate. Roxy, as you’ve found out, likes to drink, but you politely refuse each time she offers. You don’t like having limited control over your facilities, and it’s never really tasted good to you in the first place.

There’s also some food down here, neat rows of cans lining crooked shelves that sink down in their middles, but it won’t last the both of you for more than a week. You’re hoping the shelling will stop by that time and the leaders of France will step down and admit defeat – as much as you’d enjoyed the first few months in Paris, you’re beginning to really miss home.

You can’t imagine how Roxy feels, knowing her own home is being destroyed. She cries a lot, as Frigglish wanders aimlessly around the small, compact room, and you often find yourself holding her as she tries to keep herself from full-out sobbing. She does pretty well, and by the end of the second day, whispering reassurances in her ear has become a calming exercise for the both of you.

Fifty-two hours in – where you have slept maybe twelve hours, tops – the bombs cease coming so often, with the intervals between notably longer. Roxy is sleeping during this time, but she wakes up because the rhythm outside has changed, and you both inch towards the door, listening hard.

“ _Est-ce que c’est finis?_ ” she asks timidly, pressing herself against you, and you cling to her like she is your anchor as you strain your ears.

“ _Je n’ai aucune idée_ ,” you reply blankly, and she lets out a little sound that she muffles with her hand.

You lead her back to the corner and sit her down, lowering yourself so you’re across from her. Her pink eyes are deeply shadowed and bloodshot, and she looks at you with something like desperation, so different from the strong and steady gaze of the French girl you’d met a week prior. (Was it really a week? It feels like so much more.)

“Focus,” you say quietly, holding her face in your hands. She breathes in when you do, and you repeat, “Focus,” before adding, “It’s all going to work out.”

“ _J’espère que oui_ ,” she replies, and then her hands close around your neck and her lips lock with yours. You were half-expecting it, really – these desperate, bloody, violent times have led you to doing things you never would’ve done otherwise – and you can taste alcohol and fear as you kiss her back. A bomb explodes above your heads and the ground shakes ominously, and Frigglish runs to your sides as she deepens the kiss. You move with her because you’ve never done this before, but you break it off as dirt falls from the ceiling to sprinkle your face.

“Is it safe here?” you mutter to yourself, refusing to touch your lips with a finger as they tingle pleasantly.

“ _Je m’en fiche,_ ” Roxy replies, and you don’t resist when she pulls you back in close.

* * *

A little more than three days has passed when the door above opens, flooding the room with light that burns your retinas. There’s a call of “ _Y’a quelqu’un?_ ” and Roxy takes the initiative, calling back hoarsely, “ _Deux!_ ” and footsteps delicately make their way down the stairs.

Upon seeing who it is Roxy immediately pulls away from you and flings herself upon the figure, already rattling with grateful, relieved words. You can tell almost immediately the two are sisters, with their white-gold hair and peculiarly-colored eyes, and you push yourself to your feet as the two share a tight embrace, feeling unsettled and a little out-of-place. You’re not sure what you should be doing with your hands – of the rest of yourself, for that matter – when the sisters separate.

But then Roxy turns her head and says, “This is my sister Rose,” and you see that you were never excluded to begin with, it’s just you making dumb assumptions because it’s been a long three days. “She has been looking for us for a while. Paris has surrendered.”

“Is that a good thing?” you ask, carefully, taking a few steps forward so you’re standing a small distance away from them. Rose closes the distance to first shake your hand and then do _la bise_ with you, but you keep your eyes trained on her sister.

Roxy merely shrugs. “ _Je ne sais pas._ ” Her smile is bitter. “But at least the war is over, and my family is safe.”

 _Family_. You need to write your brother a letter as soon as possible. “Good.” You need to go _home_ as soon as possible. “Great.”

Roxy seems to sense your sudden unease, as she goes up to you and her arms encircle your shoulders, her face painfully earnest as she looks up at you. She says nothing, and you lean down to gently lean your forehead against hers as her sister looks on.

“ _Je m’excuse_ ,” aforementioned sister says after a few moments of watching the two of you rock slightly in this position, “ _Mais même si cela est très mignon, je pense qu’on devrait chercher quelque chose à manger. Vous ressemblez des fantômes._ ”

“Flattering,” you mumble, and Roxy merely grins and kisses your nose before pulling away, her hand easily slipping into yours. You look over at Rose and say primly, “After you.”

She raises an eyebrow and says in near-perfect English, “Quite the gentleman, I see. This way.”

The two of you follow her up the stairs, and though you squint and blink in the harsh sunlight, neither of you look back.

**Author's Note:**

> History lesson time!
> 
> During the years 1870 to 1871 and the reign of Napoléon III (Napoléon Bonaparte’s nephew), the Franco-Prussian war was waged, orchestrated by Otto von Bismarck and sparked by the German unification. It began with the complete defeat of France as a whole and ended with the defeat of the nation’s capital, Paris. The city held out five months after the rest of France itself had surrendered, which, considering how Paris itself was radical while the rest of France was relatively conservative, was not surprising. 
> 
> These five months of continuous fighting is called the Siege of Paris and took place between the 19th of September, 1870, and the 28th of January, 1871, whereupon the Germans’ attempted to starve Paris into surrender; however, concern for the German economy, as well as the French’s ability to be surprisingly resistant – as in, they might build up another army, given enough time – Otto von Bismarck, the Prussian king’s advisor and the conductor behind the entire German unification, took control and ordered the city to be bombarded with siege guns on January 25th, 1871. The city surrendered three days later.
> 
> (It should also be mentioned that the city had 12,000 shells dropped on it over a period of 23 days, which left 400 dead or wounded. This did very little to stop Paris resistance, however; it would take the aforementioned drastic measure of siege guns to bring the Parisians to their knees.)


End file.
